


Dreaming

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Bisexuality, Desperation Play, Dominance, Drabble, Dreams, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, No Safeword, Obsession, Sexual Fantasy, Spontaneous sex, Submission, could possibly be considered Dubious Consent but not really, this has a very cute ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus is consumed by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solitary

Marcus dreamed.

He dreamed of Sherlock. Of his body, sweaty, lying in his bed, on his back. They were in Marcus' apartment. Sherlock was looking up at him, eyes open with dazed lust, tongue against his bottom lip, hands resting above his head, fingers curled limply against the sheets.

 _“I trust you,”_ He breathed.

Marcus woke up with a violent start.

 

 

The dreams continued.

The scenes were muddy, unfocussed; blurred flashes of skin and sweat, imagined sounds, muffled gasps and moans pitched high with desperation. Usually, he imagined Sherlock under him, looking up at him. In one dream, however, Sherlock had been riding him, gazing down at him with desperate eyes and an open mouth, the haze of a fever dampening his skin. It was the image of Sherlock’s fixed stare- still and unmoving, even as he rocked his hips, brought himself closer and closer to release- that woke Marcus from his sleep. He'd looked down at himself, already so close, so fucking close to the edge. It'd only taken him a minute or two to come.

This obsession. These feelings.

It was unhealthy.

It scared him, how intensely he wanted Sherlock.

He’d always been attracted to men, but societal expectation and playing it safe had led him to prefer female company, to strive to sleep with women instead of men. Whenever he had been brave enough to sleep with another man, it had been a one night stand, and never anything too remarkable; he’d enjoyed it, but been too nervous and out of practice to delight in it properly. He’d never had a type. He’d never fixated. He’d fantasised, but never been caught off guard, never had a man take his own control so entirely away from him.

The things he wanted to do to Sherlock.

He wanted the same honesty Sherlock had in all other aspects of life, only he wanted it in his body and in his voice, in the sounds he made, in the ways he moved. He wanted to know what Sherlock liked. What he loved. What would drive him insane but make him want more, make him want to have it last forever, even if that meant he had to be denied release. He wanted it to be so _good_ for the both of them that they’d never need anyone else, never need one night stands or ‘acquaintances’, never need to lie in silence with a stranger, never need to cry out someone else’s name in the midst of it all.

He wanted to fuck Sherlock so hard that his head wasn’t in gear, wasn’t reeling of deduction after deduction. He wanted to empty him of his thoughts and all his genius, reduce him wordless pleas and cries. He wanted Sherlock to trust him, to let him hold him down, make all the noise and the pain go away. He wanted to hear Sherlock say it, between gasped breaths and hitched noises as Marcus pounded into him - _harder, harder- please, please, harder-_

He’d always had an affection for Sherlock. That, he could deal with.  The concern for him, the more-than-friendly desire to keep him safe, the fascination with his genius, his weird hobbies, his entire life generally; all that, he could cope with just fine. But this.

This was something else.

This was something so intense that it had an edge of violence to it- Marcus would never hurt Sherlock, not in _that_ way or in any other way, but he’d never wanted to touch someone else like this. Sherlock had never made a secret of his sexual explorations and masochistic tendencies, and knowing that only made this worse. Because Marcus knew Sherlock would like it.

He’d never been so hungry. So desperate. He wanted to be the only thing in Sherlock’s head.

And he didn’t know what to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Come Together

Sherlock drew his hips back, then forward again. His hands were braced on Marcus’ chest, knees either side of his ribs. The sun was setting. The window was open, and the smell of someone cooking wafted in with the hot air.

“’Ey,” Marcus said softly, drawing a thumb down the curve of Sherlock’s thigh, “You with me here?”

Sherlock looked down at him, cataloguing the edge of breathlessness to Marcus’ words, the tightness of his jaw, the heavy lust in his eyes. Sherlock swallowed because, somehow, he didn’t feel that he could answer that question. Not right now. Instead of answering properly, he swivelled his hips, relished the way Marcus’ eyelids fluttered, the way his fingers clutched at skin and muscle. Sherlock smiled, and did it again.

“Shit,” the beautiful man below him hissed.

Sherlock didn’t reply, and for a while neither man spoke. Sherlock kept moving, kept swaying, ignoring the stabs of discomfort in his lower back. It was worth it, for the feeling inside. For the warmth, and the spark. He’d not expected this to be very adventurous, really, so he was hardly disappointed with their current positioning and rhythm; he was just glad his propositioning of Marcus had gone so well.

He closed his eyes, mouth open, content.

Later– how much later, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure- Marcus moved one leg, shifted his weight. Sherlock knew what was about to happen before it did, and allowed Marcus to turn them over, allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. What he didn’t expect was for Marcus to grab his wrists and pull them above his head, and suddenly drive forward fast–and deep. Sherlock cried out, caught off-guard. His torso lifted off the bed, arching, before he was pressed down by the weight of the body above him. Sweat made their skin slick, hot. They were lying heavy against one another, and Sherlock blinked at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Marcus had his mouth against Sherlock’s neck, breath hot and wet, and Sherlock felt his breath hitch when he heard the intensity in that hushed syllable, “Yeah, that’s it.”

It was around then that Sherlock realised he may have mistaken the detective’s desires. He’d assumed they’d be in for a round of vanilla sex and then some post-coitus awkwardness. Possibly a round two.

But there was possessiveness, even a demanding kind of dominance in Marcus’ actions. He was small, but he was strong, and Sherlock’s curiosity was matched almost entirely by his cheeks growing hot as he was held down, as Marcus moved inside him.

“This okay?” Marcus breathed, moving again, slick noises filling the air, “Is this okay? Sherlock?”

“How long have you been planning this?” Sherlock barely formed the words; Marcus was holding his wrists hard, fingers digging into his skin, and had started to move faster.

“Need to hear you say it. Wanna hear you say it.”

“Yes, Marcus, this is okay-”

Sherlock breathed in sharply as Marcus took that as the confirmation he needed.

“Marcus, how long have you-”

“Later.” Marcus wasn’t asking, he was ordering, and Sherlock felt a hot spark of something in his stomach when he realised that, if he wanted to escape, he’d have to fight. “We’ll talk about that later.”

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock held out for as long as he could.

Eventually, though, as his legs were beginning to cramp and the air through the window was becoming colder, the sky outside darker, and he was _so fucking hard it hurt,_ he licked his lips, opened his mouth, and said, “Please.”

Marcus raised himself up, breathing heavily, eyes dark and hungry. He was an entirely different man- Sherlock had never truly felt at the mercy of anyone, but he wanted this. He wanted this now, he wanted this for hours longer, he wanted this again, as many times as possible.

It was everything he'd wanted, but not had the courage to ask for.

"Please what, Sherlock?"

Because he knew how much Marcus wanted to hear it, and anyway, he _needed this,_ Sherlock breathed in deep again, said, “ _Please_ , Marcus.”

Marcus tightened his grip, and Sherlock’s wrists were bruising. “Please _what?_  Huh?”

“Touch me. Or, let me-”

“Say it again. C'mon. You can do better than that.”

There was an element of danger to this, and Sherlock enjoyed knowing that. They hadn’t discussed safewords.

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and let the desperation show on his face. Marcus, pressed so hard against him, was only making it harder; he needed to _touch_ himself, and the stroking of Marcus’ slick abdomen against him made it all that much harder.

“Please.” He allowed his voice to break, allowed his whisper to be as unsteady as he felt, as shaky as his trembling arms. “Please. Marcus. Touch me. I need it.”

“Do you?” Marcus’ voice was teasing. There was no mistaking who was in control here.

“Marcus-”

There was a laugh, delighted and cruel, and Sherlock opened his eyes to look up at this beautiful, wonderful man. This friend of his, who was suddenly so strong, so powerful. When he moved, then, he didn’t break eye contact with Sherlock, but his muscular arm rolled with the motion as he let go of one of Sherlock’s wrists. As soon as Sherlock moved his hand, however, Marcus glared.

“Leave your hands where they are.”

“ _Marcus-_ ”

Sherlock sucked in a breath when Marcus’ fingers wrapped around his cock. His eyes closed.

“Somethin’ you wanted to say there?” Marcus’ voice was amused.

“Just,” Sherlock breathed, eyes still closed, “Please, just,”

“I got you.” A soft kind of affection crept into Marcus’ voice, and Sherlock felt a mouth on his own, a tender kiss on his lips. “'Ey, I got you.”

Sherlock whimpered, because it was all he could do. Then, Marcus was moving hard and fast, and his hand was too– no finesse, no patience, no pretence. It was too much, too quickly, and Sherlock had been clinging to the edge for so long. The bedposts were slamming against the wall. Their sweat was cold now, but their skin was hot, and Sherlock was struggling to keep seeing what was in front of him, because he felt so good, _so good,_ and his brain was just refusing to work properly-

He realised, somewhere deep in his addled mind, that it was frightening.

“I got you,” Marcus said again, because he knew, and Sherlock clung to him.

“More,” Sherlock said, because he was scared, but he could feel it approaching, could feel himself getting closer and closer, and he _wanted it,_ he wanted the silence and the peace and the ceaseless floating ecstasy-

Marcus was whispering again, gentle in a way his movements were not, moving faster and faster-

“Marcus,”

Faster, faster, and Sherlock’s head was tipping back, his mouth opening, noises building in his chest and filling his throat, spilling out into the room, the hot space between them-

“Marcus…!”

He felt his body tense, taut and stiff-

Then everything stopped.

He wasn’t quite aware of falling limp, eyes open but not seeing, and the way Marcus gasped against his shoulder, chest heaving.

The world was still.

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Marcus, sitting up next to him on the bed, looked down with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“I… I guess we should’ve…” Marcus rubbed his neck, and Sherlock was distracted his arm, the curve of his shoulder, the way it tapered down into his shapely back. “…You know, talked about… what we were gonna do.”

Sherlock returned his gaze to the ceiling. Swallowed. Noted the way the summer night lights filled the room, lit the walls, coloured Marcus’ skin. Considered what he would say next. How he could phrase it.

“I don’t want you to apologise.”

That wasn’t how he wanted to say it. He wanted to say more, but the words were sticking in his throat, so he swallowed again and resolutely looked away as Marcus looked at him.

“Why not?” Marcus asked slowly.

Sherlock hesitated. He counted ten full seconds in his head.

“It was... what I needed.”

He heard Marcus inhale carefully. He continued to look away, nervous for reasons he didn’t really understand.

Then, Marcus lay down, sliding onto his stomach next to Sherlock.

“’Ey,” he said gently, “look at me?”

Sherlock did. Marcus was smiling at him with tender, fond eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes.

“You wanna do this again?” Marcus asked.

Sherlock wanted to look away, because he’d found such peace under Marcus’ body, and he’d never so entirely let go before- not since Irene, not since the woman who’d destroyed him, remade him in the image of a broken man. It scared him. To submit so entirely.

Instead, he smiled, hoping Marcus appreciated the expression, appreciated the _thank you_ he couldn’t quite say aloud.

“Yes,” he replied.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
